eFiction India eFiction India Vol.02 Issue.09 | Page 36

35 STORIES workers sing, sing of rebellion, workers rebel, they get shot down. Whine whine zip (pause) (pause) Let it suck Let it drink deep Slap! And he got it. He had done it. He removed his hand from the spot. It flew away, as soon as he removed his hand. Whine whine whiiiine The mosquito laughs from a distance. Red hot iron rods with blunt, flat ends, burst out through his belly and forehead and fumed venomously in the air. Despair and rage. He would have driven these burning rods through each and every sinew of the mosquito’s body, would have made it swallow it. The rods grew longer and longer and longer. They broke and dropped on the ground like shells with a heavy thud. One thud after another, he began to cry. A mosquito does not have an easy life. Its knowledge is narrow and pin-pointed. It knows where to go, what to do. Its life can end in the time it takes for a spit-ball to land on the pavement. But in that short a life, the mosquito moves like an intelligent bullet headed only for the target. It cannot miss, it can only be stopped. And that is what happened to this mosquito. The more blood it consumed, the heavier it became. The heavier it became, the closer it flew to his death. eFiction India | June 2014 The conception of humans starts with a race of sperms. It’s a phenomenon with such ferocious purpose and movement. Even after a human is born, the movement continues. But something happens to certain people, and they are left thinking throughout their lives. Unable to swim with the motion. Thinking about motion, thinking about the reasons to move and the random possibility of crashing. They find themselves lost in the randomness of the crash and thus the meaninglessness of motion. People move, cars move, planets move; sometimes things crash, sometimes they don’t. Certain people cannot comprehend this random chaotic nature. They cannot understand the dual existence of both moving and crashing. The mosquitoes are lucky in this respect. He was sitting down now. Everything was quiet. Nothing stirred, nothing moved, but it didn’t matter to him now. One sharp and calculated slap by his hand, and the mosquito was no more. He picked up its dead body from his left arm, squeezed the body between his thumb and finger to make sure that it was dead and he flicked it away. To move was tiring, but to remain still was even more tiring. There were hot, wholesome cooking pots over his eyelids, swirling an exotic and colourful brew, with a simple yet beautiful aroma. He closed his eyes and the brew splashed into his eyes, taking him to wonderful places where he worked till the day he died with a happy family and group of friends, without questioning or doubting anything. His sleep was disturbed by a collection of different shouts. One sharp and calculated slap from an explosive shell, and he was no more.